Unwritten Books 3 - The Young City (4 page)

“What do we have here?” His voice was a sour tenor. His calloused knuckles whispered as he rubbed his hands together.

Warily, Rosemary stepped into the light. Peter followed her, staying close.

The other boys, their faces grimy, gathered around, gaping at Rosemary. “Well, well!” exclaimed the sharp-eyed leader. “A young maid in need.”

Peter nudged Rosemary behind him. “Leave us alone.”

The boy huffed. “That wouldn’t be Christian of me, would it, now? A young woman on the streets of this mean city, with just the clothes on her back ....” He grinned at Rosemary’s halter top. “And not even on your back. Desperate for food and shelter.... Rob Cameron at your service, ma’am. I can help you make a living in this town, for just a small reward.”

He reached to touch her shoulder, but she grabbed his wrist instead. “Leave us alone.” Her nails dug in. Rob Cameron grunted.

The slowest of Rob’s three boys hadn’t taken his eyes off of Rosemary’s bare back. He guffawed. “You sure are a looker. Would you roll in the muck with just anybody?” He ran his hand through Rosemary’s grimy hair, and the air left him as Peter punched him in the stomach.

The boys pounced. Peter’s fists flailed, but punches hit home and knocked him on his back. Rob circled the melee, shouting directions and encouragement.

When his back was to Rosemary, she ran at him, putting her shoulder into him and sending him face first into a wall. He crumpled, cried out, and clutched his nose. Blood seeped through his fingers.

Peter shoved his attackers aside and ran to Rosemary. They faced the gang defiantly.

“That ain’t no way for a lady to act!” Rob shouted, his voice pinched.

“I’m no lady,” Rosemary snarled.

They heard a shout from down the street, and hard soles pounding.

“Police!” The gang scattered, running north.

Rob glared at them. “This ain’t over!” He glanced back at the officers, then ran after his boys.

Peter bundled Rosemary back into the doorway’s shadow as the constables charged past. Then it was quiet again.

“Are you all right?” Rosemary touched Peter’s cheek. “You’re bleeding.”

Peter flinched, then pulled her hand away. A punch
had broken the skin on his cheekbone. Blood trickled down his dirty face. “It’s nothing. I’ll heal.”

Rosemary smiled. “My knight in shining armour.”

Peter laughed. “The damsel in distress isn’t so helpless herself.”

Then, movement caught their eye and they looked back across the street. The well-dressed man stood outside the store he’d entered, tapping his cane as he stared up the street where the boys had fled. He shook his head. Then he turned on his heel and walked south, cane clicking with each step.

Peter and Rosemary waited until the block was clear before stepping back onto the sidewalk.

“What now?” asked Peter.

“We stick to the original plan.” She crossed the dirt street to the open store, then stopped to read the awning. “Toronto-Yorkville Pawnbrokers ... Pawnbrokers! Peter, I have an idea!”

He came up beside her. “What do we have to pawn?” He stared in horror as Rosemary started to pull a ring off her finger. “Not our promise ring!”

“This is no time to be sentimental.” She struggled with the gold band.

“But —”

“No buts! It’s either this or I sell my hair!” She let out a cry of triumph as the ring came free. Squaring her shoulders, she marched to the pawnbroker’s door, pulled it open, and stepped into the dark of the shop.

FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY

A bell jangled as Rosemary entered. She blinked in the wavering lamplight.

The store smelled of old furniture wax with a hint of stew. The customer area was small, blocked by an oak counter. The rest of the store was given to stacked furniture. Sheets of newsprint pinned to the walls listed watches, jewellery, and other items for sale, with prices written with charcoal. At the back of the room, a man sat hunched by his desk, his face in his hands.

Rosemary cleared her throat. “Excuse me.”

The man flinched. “For the love of ....” He was clean-shaven and bewildered. There were lines below his eyes. He raised his soft voice and its hint of Scottish brogue. “We are closed this Lord’s Day! Do you not know ....” He saw her and stood up, knocking his chair back. “Good God, woman, you’re hardly dressed!”

Rosemary crossed an arm around her chest. “I know.
Can you look at this ring?” She thrust it out to him. He crossed the floor and stared at it.

Peter burst into the shop. “Rosemary, there has to be another way —”

She rounded on him. “Like what? Sign up at a poorhouse? Peter, have you read
A Christmas Carol
?”

“This is not London, England. This is Toronto, Ontario!” He swiped at the ring.

“A fat lot of good that does us when we have no money!”

The shopkeeper cleared his throat. “Excuse me!” Peter and Rosemary stopped in mid-struggle. “First of all, this shop is closed. If the police thought I was doing business, I’d face a fine. Second, how do I know this ring belongs to you?”

“I don’t believe this.” Rosemary held up her hand, showing the crease the ring had left behind. “I’ve had my ring on this finger for a year! If I could steal, wouldn’t I have stolen clothes?” She spread her arms wide. The shopkeeper averted his eyes.

She grabbed his hand and pressed the ring into his palm. “So, you, look at this ring and tell me what it’s worth, and you,” she rounded on Peter, “keep quiet until you come up with a better idea of how to find food, clothes, and shelter!”

The shopkeeper looked from seething Rosemary to cowed Peter and back. “Right,” he said at last, and he pulled a magnifying glass from the drawer.

“Gold,” he muttered. “No diamonds. A claddagh. Oddly stylized. The detail work is ....” He stopped, stared, then dropped his magnifying glass and put a jeweller’s loupe to his eye. His eyebrows shot up. “Exceptional! The goldsmith that made this must have had a rock-steady hand! How could you afford such a ring?” He stared at them, then looked back. “Ah, an inscription. ‘March 21/08’ — odd misprint, that. ‘To Rosemary Forever, Love Peter.’”

He looked up. The jeweller’s glass fell into his hand. “Peter. Rosemary. Those
are
your names.”

Peter and Rosemary nodded.

“This really
is
your wedding ring!”

Rosemary’s mouth dropped open. Peter spluttered. But before either could say anything, the shopkeeper thrust the ring back. “I canna take this!”

“What?” gasped Rosemary. “You have to! It’s all we have!”

“But to give up your wedding ring?” the shopkeeper cut in. “I know times are bad, but this is a treasure beyond money. I’ll not take it from you. As for food and shelter ...,” he pulled open a drawer and took out paper, a pen, and an ink bottle, “... there is a church up the street; the priest will help you. With my letter of reference, you may find shelter, perhaps work. What’s your name?”

“Rosemary Watson,” replied Rosemary. “But —”

The man dropped his pen. “Watson?” he repeated. “Mr. and Mrs. Watson?”

Peter started to say something, but Rosemary pressed her heel to his toe.

The shopkeeper levered up the oak counter and pressed the promise ring into Rosemary’s palm. “My name is Edmund Watson. Come back with me.”

As Edmund led them through a door to the back, Peter leaned close to Rosemary. “Why did you tell him we’re married?”

“I didn’t,” she whispered. “I just didn’t correct him.”

“Great! Now I’m Peter Watson.”

“Fine, you explain the quaint twenty-first-century custom of hyphenated last names!”

They walked through a long, candlelit hallway. They passed a bedroom doing double duty as a storeroom and went through a door at the end of the hall.

The smell of woodsmoke and stew struck them as they entered a bright, cluttered kitchen. The setting sun caused the shelves and canisters to glow. They heard a bubbling on the pot-bellied stove, and the sound of a woman muttering in the pantry.

Edmund cleared his throat. “Faith, let me introduce Peter and Rosemary Watson.” He turned to them. “My sister, Faith.”

Peter blinked. “Faith? It couldn’t —”

The woman stepped out of the pantry, dusting flour from her hands. She froze. Then her flour-covered arms crossed her chest. She may have changed into a faded
brown dress and a frayed apron, but she was still the same woman who’d tended to Peter after the accident. Rosemary swallowed hard.

“We’ve met,” said Peter.

“Yes,” said Faith. “I recognize the back of you.”

“Um ...,” said Rosemary, “sorry about that.”

“Faith?” Edmund looked from one woman to the other. “Why do you frown?”

“This was the young couple I found on the street after church,” said Faith, not taking her eyes off Rosemary. “The same ones who ran as soon as the constabulary arrived, leaving me to look a fool.”

“In our defence,” said Peter, “we were facing a hostile crowd.”

“Making me look a fool before an audience,” said Faith.

“I ... I’m sorry!” Rosemary backed away. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. We’ll be leaving —”

Edmund blocked her path. “Faith, these two are destitute; they tried to sell their wedding ring. They are Watsons: family! We must help them.”

Faith’s expression kept its edge. “We should help the destitute, but I’ll not have fugitives under my roof. I demand an explanation.” She turned on Rosemary. “Why do you fear the constabulary?”

“Well,” said Rosemary. “You saw how people reacted to us. How do you think the police would have treated us?”

“I would have spoken for you,” said Faith.

“And if they didn’t listen?”

Faith’s glare softened. “All right, I can understand why you may have run, but let me be sure: who are you and where are you from?”

Rosemary bit back her answer. “Uh ... from away.”

Edmund stepped around and stood by Faith’s side. “You’re just off the boat?” He turned back to Faith. “We
have
to help them. Alone in this vast country —”

Faith silenced him with a raised hand. “You do not sound Scottish, English, or Irish.” She hesitated, frowning. “You do not even sound American. You’re not from here, but where are you from?”

Peter opened his mouth, but couldn’t get an answer out. “Away,” he said at last.

Faith stepped forward. “Show me your hands.” Peter and Rosemary obeyed. Faith examined Peter’s fingers first. “You’ve not done a day’s work in your life!” She snatched up Rosemary’s hand. “And you have a fine wedding ring. How came you to be in such a state?”

“Did you elope from some dukedom?” asked Edmund. “Are you running from your families?”

“No,” Rosemary said. “I won’t lie to you. But I won’t tell you where we came from, either. You wouldn’t believe it. All I can tell you is that we’re not criminals, we’re just lost. We need help. If you don’t want to give it, I’ll understand.”

Faith looked Rosemary in the eye. Rosemary met her gaze. Silence stretched. Then Faith nodded. “We will help you.”

Peter let out his breath.

Faith added water to the stew. “Supper will be ready shortly, but first we must get the stink of the street off you.” She snapped her fingers at Edmund. “Get another bucket of water immediately. We have to run a bath!”

“Bath!” said Peter. “That’s great! Where ....” He stopped short as Faith dragged a metal tub out of a corner. She stared at the two teenagers standing with their mouths agape.

“Well, go on!” She motioned to the tub. “Decide between you who uses it first. Edmund will be back with water and then you will have the kitchen to yourselves. Leave your clothes by the door, and Edmund and I will have fresh clothes ready when you’re done.”

“Um,” said Peter.

“I ... er ...,” said Rosemary.

“I’ll return with a towel and soap. Do not dally.” And Faith went upstairs, her hard-soled shoes clicking up the steps.

Peter and Rosemary stood in the centre of the kitchen. They looked at the tub. They looked at each other. Peter gulped.

Rosemary pulled at her collar as she clopped down the steps wearing a brown gingham dress. She felt like she was clad in curtains, strapped in a metal cage. The corset held her so upright, she felt as though her posture was on permanent trial. The skirts hid her feet and the edges of the steps. She kept one hand firm against the wall.

At the base of the steps, she saw Faith hanging clothes near the stove. The woman fingered Rosemary’s halter top, stretched out the elastic fabric, and marvelled as it snapped back into shape. Tentatively, she measured the garment against her chest.

Rosemary jumped into the kitchen. “Hi!”

Faith crumpled the halter top into the hamper. “Ah, you are dressed! Let us see how my old gingham fits you.”

She planted Rosemary in the centre of the kitchen and spun her around as though she were a clothes mannequin. “You are just my size. I was worried, but now you have a selection of clothes to choose from. And you fill them out very well.”

“Thank you.” With no mirror, Rosemary could only imagine how she looked. Something between a schoolmistress and a farm wife, perhaps. Probably closer to the former. “How do you think Peter’s doing?”